Mario Testa points out some of the features during construction of his new catering on Madison Avenue in Bridgeport, Conn. April 28, 2005. The new Testo's was built on the site of the former Three Doors.

Mario Testa points out some of the features during construction of his new catering on Madison Avenue in Bridgeport, Conn. April 28, 2005. The new Testo's was built on the site of the former Three Doors.

Mayor Bill Finch, seen here with Mario Testa (center), listen as Karen Makar expresses her concerns while she waits to vote at Central High School, in Bridgeport, Conn. on election night, Nov. 2nd, 2010.

Mayor Bill Finch, seen here with Mario Testa (center), listen as Karen Makar expresses her concerns while she waits to vote at Central High School, in Bridgeport, Conn. on election night, Nov. 2nd, 2010.

BRIDGEPORT -- At lunchtime on St. Patrick's Day, Mario Testa steps into his restaurant kitchen to find the water already boiling.

Approaching the stove, he dumps in two panfuls of rigatoni and dashes on some salt. Then he ladles in his secret sauce -- or "gravy," he said -- and stirs a meal for someone he's met several times from Washington.

Testa shrugs and throws on some cheese: "He might give it to his neighbor," he said.

Hours later, Mayor Bill Finch would leave Bridgeport's St. Patrick's Day parade and board a plane for the nation's capital. Barring forces outside Testa's control, the meal would land on the vice president's desk for dinner.

Toiling in his Madison Avenue restaurant, 64-year-old Democratic Town Chairman Mario Testa has made a career serving up Italian fares, political fortunes and leaving his indelible stamp on the city that welcomed him as a teenage immigrant.

His approach, he said, has Bridgeport's best interests at heart: "Mario gets results for our city and for us!!" reads one old political poster, which in part explains his success retaining the chairmanship of the DTC for 15 of the past 20 years.

His many critics, however, portray him as a party boss of old -- champion of a political machine they say is fueled by patronage; meddler of city governance from outside of public office; hoarder of power for his own sake and for those he helps.

In the wake of the federal corruption probe that sent Mayor Joseph P. Ganim to prison in 2003, Testa stepped down after 11 years as party chairman. Four years later, though, he reclaimed the post -- and has since worked alongside Finch, though with perhaps less power than before.

Now, with Ganim released from prison and pondering another mayoral bid this fall, Testa confronts something of a Faustian dilemma: Should he support Finch, the incumbent who appears to have the DTC's endorsement locked up, or go with Ganim, his old friend, the man who nearly fulfilled his dream of making a Bridgeporter governor?

Whatever the future holds, if you're looking to understand the last 20 years of Bridgeport politics, Testa and his restaurant are as good as any place to start.

TESTA HALL

"I don't have a restaurant. I think it's really remarkable to have that setting. I can't say I'm not a little bit envious of that." -- Susan Voigt, chairwoman of New Haven's Democratic Town Committee since 2002.

If most people have an image of a party boss, it's of a cigar-chomping, barrel-chested brute, with dollar signs running down his shirt, barking orders at elected officials and businessmen.

Testa is short and polite, and more likely found in a tomato sauce-spattered apron than an expensive jacket. He speaks with a soft Italian accent, a vestige of his Italian upbringing, the seventh of eight children in a family that lived 40 miles north of Naples.

He took the reins of Bridgeport's DTC in 1992. Before that, though, he spent several years on the city's old Board of Taxation, then served two terms in Hartford as state representative. Being party chair, he said, is the best fit.

"When you're elected, you only have one vote," he said. "Here, I have leverage over all of them."

He'll call a congressman in Washington, he said, to express dismay over a lack of support in passing a bill. He'll remind a Hartford legislator how he helped bankroll the politician's campaign -- and, by the way, a crucial vote is coming up for Bridgeport. And he'll counsel city officials on how their actions resonate politically.

And he'll do it all from Testo's Ristorante & Banquets, his Madison Avenue restaurant, which is at once his business, office, political headquarters and life.

Testa is a creature of habit. He has no wife or children. He doesn't carry a cellphone. You can reach him at Testo's most any hour of the work week -- save for during his three-hour naps each afternoon. Most nights he sleeps in the upstairs apartment. Most mornings he's up by 4:30. He heads to his basement office, he said, walks on his treadmill, answers his mail, and is back in the restaurant by 7 a.m. for the stream of visitors looking for gossip, favors and jobs.

"I'm not an ivory tower," Testa likes to say. "I have an open door. The people have access. That's what they like."

When U.S. Rep. Jim Himes, D-Conn., announced last October that President Barack Obama was coming to Bridgeport, he did so at Testo's. When Finch kicked off his re-election bid in March, he did so at Testo's, too.

That night, guests were asked to make a donation at the door. Dinner plates commanded a recommended price of $500. Nearly 300 people were in attendance. At one point, as Finch rallied his supporters from the microphone, he said of Testa: "The reason we have a Democratic governor in Hartford!"

Testa, standing in back, shaking hands of guests, broke into a wide smile.

NEOPOLITAN COMPLEX

What drives Mario Testa?

Loyalty and duty, as he said? That his father was a forester, butcher, grocer and bar-owner back in Italy, and also a politician? That he spent his first five years in America, as a teenager, trying to raise enough money to move back to Italy? That he dropped out of school at 16 to open a variety store?

That, 18-years-old and still not an American citizen, he went off to fight in Vietnam? His parting words, at the Bridgeport train station, were, as his brother Albert recalls: "If I have to die, I die"? That, in Vietnam, reading about the protesters and flag-burners back home, the spoiled ones, the unappreciative ones, he felt for the first time ... American?

Or is it ego and pride? Has it something to do with the row of photographs lining his office walls? Five Bridgeport mayors, captured together, ending with Ganim. State senators. Attorneys general. Senators. Presidents.

Politicians he's known. Politicians he feels important knowing.

Settling on one, of Ganim, who's got those big, loopy eyeglasses from the '90s, Testa describes the dream he may never fulfill: "I'd still like to deliver someone from Bridgeport as governor."

`THE HIGHLIGHT POINT'

Perched on the corner of his desk, he recounts his arrival as Bridgeport DTC chair on the state scene.

At the 1994 state Democratic convention in Hartford, the delegates, having settled on state Sen. John Larson of East Hartford for governor, couldn't agree on a running mate. Ganim, who was then 34 and two weeks earlier had bowed out of the governor's race, was considered a longshot.

The lieutenant governor negotiations gave way to lunch. Chancing into the right restaurant, Testa, Ganim and Lennie Grimaldi -- Ganim's campaign manager -- spotted the mayors of Hartford and Waterbury.

Testa approached.

"The least you can do, as a good host," he recalls saying, "is buy us a cocktail."

The five of them racked up something like a $200 bill, Testa said. When word arrived that Larson would push for Richard Balducci, a state senator from Newington, as his running-mate, they returned to the convention. Testa wanted to return home; Ganim wanted to stay. They stayed. Balducci balked at the offer.

Sensing his break, Testa strode before the crowd.

"Richie," he said -- now standing from his desk in reenactment -- "are you for John Larson as governor or against him?"

Balducci wanted to ponder the point. Testa wheeled toward the Hartford and Waterbury mayors -- who were still in high spirits, he notes -- and said: "Now which of you is going to support Joe Ganim for lieutenant governor?"

Nomination. Second. Victory for Bridgeport.

"That," said Testa, 18 years on and still smiling, "was one of the highlight points in politics."

Ganim's bid for state office failed twice in those coming months. First, Larson was upended in the September primary by state comptroller William Curry, who lacked a running mate. Inheriting Ganim, Curry went down in November to Republican John G. Rowland.

CHARTER THE CITY

"He is determined, he is smart, and he still has a lot of people out there from whom he can collect IOUs built over the years." -- Max Medina, former Board of Education chairman, former Democratic mayoral candidate

The momentum born out of that triumph in Hartford ushered in Testa's most influential, and controversial, years.

Ordinarily, a town chairman is responsible for the nuts and bolts of the political party: calling meetings for party members, overseeing the endorsement of candidates, raising funds for their campaigns, bringing fresh ideas and people into the fold.

Testa readily admits he's exceeded that. In the 1990s, he said, he put people on both the city and Board of Education payroll. To circumvent what he considered unfair hiring standards in the civil service commission -- such as not being allowed to hire ex-felons, he said -- he placed people in jobs funded by grants.

One focus was the school custodial staff. He'd frequently get phone calls from school-board members, asking for names of people who might fill an opening. He'd forward the names given to him by the DTC's 10 district heads. "Ninety-nine percent of the people I suggested," he said, "I never knew."

Occasionally, that led to problems. When the employee failed to work out -- or failed to show up for work altogether -- the employee's supervisor, at least on the city side, would phone Testa to complain.

"And I'd say, `Get rid of him!' " he said.

Wait a minute. City supervisors need Testa's permission to fire an employee?

"As a courtesy," he said of the phone calls. "You're the chairman, and they do have some respect for you."

However, many of Testa's critics have little respect for his opinion on that.

"Speaking hypothetically," said Max Medina, a former Democratic school-board head, who once ran for mayor, "he calls you up and said, `Look, I need you and the six other people in your family to vote for our guy.' " Medina pauses. "What are the odds you are going to turn him down, after owing him your livelihood?"

One result of Testa's "meddling": By 2007, more than 80 percent of the DTC either worked for the city, had relatives who worked for the city, collected city pensions, were former city employees, held elected positions, or served on influential boards or commissions.

Yet for all that concentration of interests, the DTC hasn't universally won landslide elections, nor has Testa always backed a winner.

In the 2008 Democratic mayoral primary, for example, Chris Caruso -- the 10-term state representative from the 126th District who made a career of defeating his party-endorsed challengers -- came within 270 votes of toppling Finch, the endorsed candidate. (He then appealed the election results, alleging widespread voting fraud, all the way to the state Supreme Court.)

Another example: In last summer's gubernatorial primary, Ned Lamont, despite having Finch and Testa's endorsement, managed only 64 more votes from Bridgeport Democrats than did Dannel P. Malloy. Lamont, a Greenwich resident, conceded defeat that night at Testa's restaurant.

Other signs suggest Testa's political muscle has weakened. In April 2001, for instance, the DTC had netted some $330,000 -- far outpacing every other town committee in the state -- with an eye toward Ganim's campaign for governor. (The Bridgeport Republicans had, by comparison, $212 saved up, according to an Associated Press story at the time.)

Today, according to Testa, the DTC has, at most, $30,000 in its coffers.

These days, there are also fewer job openings. For one thing, many of the grant positions on which Testa had capitalized have been either eliminated or placed under the purview of the civil service commission. Also, the city, beset by a budget crisis and trying labor negotiations, isn't hiring like it did in the '90s.

Yet Testa is trying. One recent morning, a small piece of paper sat on his desk, dropped off by a part-time custodian. The man was hoping to land a full-time position. Testa didn't know him. But he said he'd call up the supervisor and see if he could help.

"I always try to open doors for people," he said. "But if you can't make it after, then I'm not going to help."

DIMINISHING RETURNS

"He's a protector of the status quo; and for Bridgeport, the status quo sucks." -- a prominent Republican

The underlying critique of Testa is that he throttles talent out of Bridgeport politics.

One example involves Carmen Lopez, a former state Superior Court judge, who in late 2009 walked into his wide banquet hall hoping to land a spot on the Board of Education. She sat for an interview with the DTC's 10 district heads.

"It was almost like an inquisition," she said.

She brought reports she'd helped write on the drop-out rates and achievement gaps in Bridgeport schools.

But the half-hour interview, she said -- and Testa confirmed -- centered on a much narrower question: Would you help strip the provision from Superintendent of Schools John Ramos' contract that extends his tenure each time he gets a positive performance review from the school board?

When Lopez answered that she hadn't read his contract, that she feared legal retaliation for trying to, that she couldn't agree to this here and now, she said she felt eliminated from consideration.

"Not one person," she said, "had an interest in learning about the merits of what a person has to do with the Board of Education."

Independent political thought, she concluded, has no place in Bridgeport. Either someone tries for change and gets broadsided by the system or, worse yet, someone who might otherwise volunteer his or her energy thinks better of trying.

That, in part, could account for Testa's observation: Over the past 15 years, he said, the profile of the average DTC member has gone from caring deeply about the city's management to caring deeply about getting a job.

"We have a lot of high school diplomas now," he said. "Not a lot of college degrees."

He blames the city professionals who've fled to the suburbs. Yet some city professionals who haven't moved out of Bridgeport point a finger at him.

"If the town committee has changed that dramatically, and he is in charge of it, shouldn't he take the blame for that?" asks city councilman Bob Walsh. "It sounds to me as if he's admitting it's become very self-centered, self-motivated."

Lopez blames the "culture of bossism" she said defines Bridgeport politics. "It's not just Mario," she said. "It's those 10 leaders who interviewed me, (who) decided that what I offered was insufficient to satisfy their interests."

Testa said he can't control the district leaders, that he simply steers the party flock toward victory on Election Day. With Lopez, he said, the district leaders had already united behind other candidates -- candidates, he said, who supported removing the clause from the superintendent's contract. In fact, he said, he'd have liked seeing Lopez on the Board of Education.

Then he raises a rhetorical question: "Who do you think made Lopez a judge?"

FAUSTIAN DILEMMA

If getting Ganim nominated for lieutenant governor was one of Testa's high points, then the mayor's conviction a decade later on 16 federal corruption charges was the bottom falling out.

After the conviction in March 2003, Testa told the New York Times he would step down as party chairman when his term expired because the Democrats weren't heading in the direction he wanted.

The investigations against him were reportedly extensive. He told the Connecticut Post in 2001 that he had been wiretapped by the FBI. But he was never indicted. Why?

"He was very close to some very corrupt people for a very long time," said Michael Sklaire, the former assistant U.S. attorney who prosecuted the Bridgeport corruption case. "But that's where it ends."

How could he have stayed clean in that environment?

"Look at Bernie Madoff's wife," said Sklaire, referring to Ruth Madoff -- who was never implicated in her husband's Ponzi scheme but of whom questions have been raised about what she knew -- "There's your answer."

While Ganim served seven years in prison, he kept in touch with Testa. And since his release from a halfway house last July, he's made frequent visits to Testa's restaurant.

Back in his basement office, Testa grabs an envelope from his desk and recalls one autumn evening in 2009.

Vice President Joe Biden and U.S. Sen. Chris Dodd were at a Merritt Parkway commuter lot in Fairfield, extolling the recently passed American Recovery and Reinvestment Act, which was pumping $67 million into renovating the highway.

As the afternoon wore on, a union man leaned in and told Testa he'd be stopping by the restaurant for a bowl of pasta.

Overhearing, Biden said he'd like to do the same. His staff, however, wouldn't allow the late change in plans. Instead, Testa had someone deliver a meal from his restaurant, which Biden ate en route to the airport.

A week later, a letter arrived in the mail.

"Dear Mario, I thank you for the delicious pasta," Biden wrote. "Next time I am in Bridgeport, I will have to try some of your famous meatballs."

The phone rings. Upstairs, a worker is getting ready to drop off Testa's rigatoni and gravy to Finch, who'll bring it to Biden. Testa gives some last-minute instructions.

"Put it in a plastic bag," he dictates. "Tie the bag. Then put it in a Testo's bag. And put in four meatballs."

Hanging up, he wonders if the meal will get through airport security.

It did not.

"Actually," the mayor confesses, "I didn't even know he delivered it here. When the parade ended I just got in my car and left."

Reach Tim Loh at tloh@ctpost.com or 203-330-6377. Follow at twitter.com/timloh.